everything right once more with Clare. They should prove to her that, after all, his past life had not been so terrible, that Cornwall could produce heroes if it liked. Through these two he would get fresh inspiration for his work. He felt already, through them, a wind blowing that cleared all the dust from his brain.
And how splendid for the boy! To have two such men for his friends! Already he was planning to persuade them to stay in London. He had thought of the very place for them in Chelsea, near the Roundabout, the very house. . . .
“Of course you'll stay for dinner, you two—”
“But—” said Mr. Zanti, mopping his brow from which perspiration was dripping.
“No, nonsense. Of course you'll stop. We've got such heaps to talk about—”
Stephen had got the baby now on his shoulder. “Off to Cornwall,” he shouted and charged down the room.
It was at that instant that Peter was conscious that Clare had been standing, for some moments, in the room. She stood, quite silently, without moving, by the door, her eyes blazing at him. . . .
His first thought was of that other time when she had found him in the nursery, of the quarrel that they had had. Then he noticed the state of the room, the overturned chairs and table. Then he saw Mr. Zanti still wiping his forehead, but confusedly, and staring at Clare in a shocked hushed way, as though he were a small boy who had been detected with his fingers in a jam-pot.
Stephen saw her at last. He put the baby down and came slowly across the floor. Peter spoke: “Why, Clare! You're back early. We've been having such a splendid time with Stephen—let me introduce my friends to you—Mr. Zanti and Mr. Brant . . . you've heard me speak of them—”
They came towards her. She shook hands with them, regarding them gravely.
“How do you do?”
There was silence. Then Mr Zanti said—“We must be goin'—longer than we ought to stop—we 'ave business—”
